A/N: The indecently long new chapter is finally here and I have to admit, I'm rather in love with it. I know we've all been waiting for a big Sherlolly moment, and even though there are still far huger moments to come in the future, I think this is a pretty good taste of things to come ;) Once again, thank you everyone for your incredible patience with me, for sharing your thoughts and your feelings. This story is nothing without you. You must know this. It is nothing without you. x

Chapter 26

Mycroft was in two minds as to whether to head to the Diogenes Club for some quiet time, or whether to head back to one of his secret, palatial offices. There was that cumbersome trade meeting he still had to think about, amongst a plethora of issues, national and international, that he had on his hands. His desire for a taste of some decent whisky made the decision for him – The Diogenes Club, it was.

As the car drove silently through the well-lit streets of London, he let his mind idle for a bit. Idling, by Mycroft's standards, simply meant taking in the sights as they were, not thinking beyond the primary layer. For those few moments, he ignored every nook and cranny he passed where he knew a surveillance camera existed. Mycroft enjoyed the street lights, the calm, glowing structures that offered a simple functionality, ignoring the fact that each had a device planted within them by the Ministry of Defence for the purposes of national security.

He let his gaze shift up as he stared out from his window and into the night sky. It was speckled, as though strange glitter had been flung from earth, and now clung hopelessly to black velvet. Mycroft's in-depth knowledge of both the universe and the classified government work he was involved in meant he could distinguish the various constellations from the secret satellites that nestled amongst them. For the busiest man in England, it was a rare pleasure to look only at the stars for once.

This pleasure, however, was soon interrupted by a phone call. It was another of Mycroft's secretaries from his Home Affairs HQ. Incidentally, this was where Molly had been housed when recuperating under his protection. He picked the call up within two rings, as was his habit. As he listened to what his secretary had to say, his eyebrows began to knit into a tight, irritated frown.

"Didn't we talk to them about this?" he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We had given them specific instructions not to run stories like these anymore… No, no, it has nothing to do with context." Mycroft remarked, frustrated. "So what, if they're no longer associated? It's not the association that matters…" He paused, sighing, as his secretary continued to update him. "The entire purpose was to erase her from any form of media, rubbish tabloids included. So you can tell them that it's not about the fact that they're also reporting on Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes is talked about all the time in every newspaper and tabloid there is," he continued.

A few moments of silence passed as the secretary continued, informing Mycroft of all the recent reports they had collected, and suggesting possible action to take. As he processed what was being said, Mycroft shut his eyes, one hand over his forehead as his mind spun once more. This was certainly not the night for admiring a beautiful night sky. In any case, Mycroft had certainly lost the desire to.

"Give them an ultimatum." Mycroft said, at last. He looked up and his eyes were calm, just as his voice no longer registered agitation. "If they print even her name, I will have the entire publishing house shut down and never heard of again. They are to retract all current publications that carry this utterly pointless tabloid fodder before rush hour tomorrow and if I see even a scrap of it beneath the bottom of a homeless man I will shut them down as well."

Mycroft paused, taking a steady breath to compose himself.

"Please inform them as I have instructed, and do the necessary follow ups." he said smoothly and steadily before hanging up with a quick swipe of his thumb across the phone screen.

'Ridiculous," he muttered to himself, as he placed his phone into his pocket. Why was the world still obsessed with Evelyn Lancaster? His phone buzzed again and he reached for it, exhaling despondently again. The secretary had just sent Mycroft a series of images, all of which were scans of a particular tabloid paper that was scheduled to hit newsstands the next morning. There were recycled and doctored photos of Evelyn Lancaster and his brother, back when they were both on her case. The headline undid everything Mycroft had wanted, which was to wipe every trace of Evelyn Lancaster off of London, and frankly, off of England's radar. In big, bold typeface, the headline for tomorrow screamed:

L'AUTRE PIED LOVEBIRDS: WHERE IS EVELYN LANCASTER?
LONESOME DETECTIVE SPARKS RUMOURS OF SPLIT

"Surely they have a million other pieces of rubbish they could write about? Is that not what tabloid papers do?" muttered Mycroft to himself. "Evelyn Lancaster is the oldest news there is…"

The next few minutes were spent fighting this tiny little fire that had broken out. It was a small matter and certainly no threat to Mycroft, but it meant time wasted. Time wasted on foolish things displeasured Mycroft greatly. Nevertheless, the right people were spoken to, the relevant warnings were sent out and the threats, made ready to be realised should his words be disregarded.

When he was done, he returned his phone to his pocket and was glad things were back under control. It was times like these that Mycroft marvelled at the irony of his work. He had hoped that being in the highest of governments, he would be surrounded by less foolery and away from as much noise as possible. Obviously, he had miscalculated. Just then, his pocket buzzed with another incoming call. Mycroft was almost tempted to ignore it but could not risk letting anything slip past him. Reaching into his pocket for what felt like the umpteenth time, Mycroft answered the call swiftly.

"Wow. It's true. You do pick up after two rings." came the voice on the other side of the line.

It was a voice he had not been expecting, but was a very pleasant surprise indeed.

"Molly."
"Mycroft."
"This is an unusual hour…"
"I have an unusual request." interrupted Molly.
"Let it at least be of amusement," he said, massaging the bridge of his nose again, "It's been a challenging day."

There was a laugh at the end of the line and it brought a small smile to his weary face.

"As a matter of fact, Mycroft, it just might." Molly replied.
"Wonderful," he answered, smiling on his end, "I'm all ears."
"Are you any good at throwing parties?"

The moment he had sent it, Sherlock leapt out of his chair and was, quite literally, in a state of panic. Racing up the stairs, he found himself outside of John's room, slamming his knuckles against the door.

"John….John…John!" he exclaimed through the door.
"What…what….what, Sherlock?!" John replied angrily, swinging his door open
"John…"
"Yes, Sherlock, it's…god knows what time it is…what's happened?" John asked, scratching the side of his face as he let out a yawn.
"I've…I…"

When John rubbed his eyes and took a good look at his best mate, he was a little taken aback to see how wide Sherlock's eyes were and the obvious agitation he was in.

"Sherlock, calm down and tell me what's happened," he said, gesturing for them to get out of his doorway and to walk back downstairs. Sherlock nodded, and the two men hurriedly made their way back down and headed for the kitchen. John poured himself a glass of water and sipped it, clearing his throat while he studied his flat mate. The detective had begun to pace the tiny kitchen space, his mobile phone clasped in his hands that were fixed behind his back.

"That's a little um, unnerving…this…" John said, gesturing to the detective as he sat himself at their dining table, "this…very-quick-walking-in-a-narrow-space thing that you're doing…"
"John…"
"Yes, Sherlock, for the hundredth time, what's the matter?"

The detective appeared flustered, and it amused John a little more than it should have. Clearing his throat and remembering to be a good friend, John asked Sherlock again if he was all right.

"What…what do you think this means, if I write something…like this?" he asked, his question fractured by awkward pauses.

The glowing screen of his phone was shoved into John's face. John reached for it and moved it to a more reasonable distance where the phone did not touch his nose. He scanned the text in question and said it aloud.

"Would…you…like to have coffee…" John read, word by word. He looked up at the detective, puzzled. "Did you write this?"
"Well, obviously!" Sherlock replied, "You're looking at my conversation with Molly."
"Molly? Molly Hooper?" John asked.
"Yes, yes," answered Sherlock with an irritated wave of his hand, "Molly Hooper."
"You're…talking to her?" John asked again, setting the phone down. He was tempted to scroll up and read all their previous exchanges but decided against it.

A raised eyebrow and a tight-lipped expression were what John received in response to his question. This seemed very out of the blue, and it was a very extraordinary sight indeed, to see the famous detective so flustered. John was utterly clueless about what could have possibly transpired to have led to such a state. It seemed Sherlock felt the same way. He reached for his phone that John had set back on the table and glared at it.

"She hasn't replied." the detective said quietly.
"Well, when did you send it?"
"1:47 am."
"Right, and it's…" John turned to glance at the kitchen clock, "1:51am…"
"What is the standard time for a reply?" Sherlock asked, his eyes staring hard at the screen, "Four minutes…is that too long? Normal? Short?"
"Sherlock…she's probably in shock…" John said with a laugh.
"In shock? Why?" the detective asked, looking up suddenly.
"Because…it's… you! Asking her for coffee! And not for, you know, a diseased spleen or punctured lungs, things like that…" John exclaimed, waving both hands into the air.

Sherlock let John's words sink in as he thought hard about why he had even written what he had in the first place. What had possessed him to ask her such a question? There was something familiar about the question, as though he had heard it somewhere. He remembered using it once, and probably on her. It had something to do with an apology. He had obviously deleted it but fragments of it had lingered. Had she not been the first one to have asked this very question? Yes, the memory was returning to the detective now. There had been a corpse, a riding crop, bruises to note and, for some reason, her tentative little smile swam right alongside the other memories.

"Why would I ask her to have coffee?" Sherlock asked, murmuring the question to himself.
"I don't know, mate. Why would you ask her for coffee?" John asked in return, sitting forward with his hands clasped on the table. "Besides, doesn't she have a boyfriend now or something? They came to see Mrs Hudson that day when—"
"It was Mycroft…" interrupted the detective.
"Sorry, what? Mycroft?"
"Yes," Sherlock continued. He was staring into space now. "He'd asked me…"

The sentence hung in mid-air, unfinished. John raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, in anticipation for the rest of the words.

"Well? What did he ask you?" John said, breaking the sudden silence.
"He asked if I wanted to see her."

The words came out rapidly, and again, they were very unexpected. John was stunned. His eyes were wide as he processed what Sherlock had just said.

"And so you asked her for coffee?" John said.
"Yes."
"Okay…"
"Why did I do that, John?"
"Haven't you just answered your own question?"
"No. Have I?" asked Sherlock, his brows furrowed.

John was positive that smoke was coming out from Sherlock's temples. The cogs in that detective mind were spinning, but in a direction opposite to the workings of his entire mechanism.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not a consulting detective—" John began
"No, you're not…"
"Let me finish.
"Right. Sorry."
"You asked me what it meant, if you asked Molly for a coffee… Was that your original question?" John asked, folding his arms.
"Yes…"
"And then you proceeded to tell me about what Mycroft had asked you." he continued, leaning against his seat.
"Yes."
"So, in that case…I'm going to ask you Mycroft's question again."
"Why?" Sherlock asked sharply.
"Because the answer to that, Sherlock, is your answer. The real answer."
"The real answer to what?"

John sighed and rubbed his temples. The cluelessness of this brilliant detective, who made his living off looking for clues, was as exasperating as it was ironic.

"Sherlock," said John.
"Yes?"
"Do you want to see Molly again?" he asked.

It was the second time the detective had been faced with this question. This time, it seemed Sherlock was awakening to his own answer. His throat went dry all of a sudden, and he could feel the tiny jolts in his chest from the sudden irregularity of his heartbeat. Then came the unexpected recollection of his visit to her hotel, and after that, the unpleasant recollection of Brian. When the face of Molly's beau swam into view, the detective actually grimaced, which did not go unnoticed by John.

"I don't understand that facial expression…" John remarked slowly, as he continued observing Sherlock.

The surprise wave of sentiment began to ebb as logic barged its way back into Sherlock. Brian had reminded Sherlock of the hard fact that his own sentiment did not matter. The current circumstance rendered everything that Sherlock felt inconsequential.

"What is the point of wanting to see her," Sherlock answered pensively, "when I can't?"

John rubbed his tired eyes and sighed into his hands.

"You're not answering the question, Sherlock."
"What does it matter…" Sherlock muttered, finally taking a seat.
"It matters more than you know," John answered.
"My mind doesn't usually feel so…messy…" said Sherlock, running his hands roughly through his hair.
"This is not about your mind, Sherlock, "John remarked with a laugh, "And if you answer my question, it will clear things up for you."
"I don't see how it will cl—"

Their conversation was interrupted by Sherlock's mobile phone that buzzed softly, rotating a few millimetres as it did so. The two gentlemen stopped, stared at the device, then at each other. As the phone buzzed another time, rotating another tiny millimetre to its left, Sherlock swallowed nervously, whilst John bit down an amused smile.

"D'you want me to—"
"Shh! I think that's Molly…"
"Yes, I know it's Molly which is why I asked if you wanted me to get that for y—"

The answer to John's question was answered in the form of Sherlock's lean, violinist fingers swooping down on the phone that lay between them. He grabbed it, swiped swiftly at the screen and glared at it as the glowing screen reflected off his pupils. John watched as Sherlock took in a sharp intake of breath, frowned, blinked rapidly, only to start frowning again. For any ordinary person, this would have been an unusual way to display what Sherlock was currently feeling. However, John knew Sherlock, and he knew better.

The detective was utterly ecstatic. He was terrified, hence all the twitches and frowns, but there was no doubt that Sherlock was terribly pleased.

"Come on, don't make me have woken up for nothing," John said with a chuckle, "What did she say?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and seemed to be racking his brains for something to say. He gave up, placing his phone on the table and sliding it across to John's eager hands. John brought the phone up to his eyes and read the much-awaited reply.

I'll see what I can do. – M

You'll hear from me soon. Promise. – M

When John read the contents of Molly's reply, he affirmed that Sherlock's delight was real. Behind the wide, steely glaze and the unmoving mouth, John could detect the tiniest smirk. It was a smirk of victory. Normally, it annoyed John, but tonight, he could not help but partake in a little of his friend's victory. In fact, he was almost proud of Sherlock. It was nice to know he had a heart.

"So, do you want to see her?" John asked a second time as he slid the phone back to Sherlock.

A smile finally cracked, appearing faintly on the detective's lips.

"I most certainly do," he answered, retrieving his phone and swiftly exited the kitchen.

It was a little outside of his usual portfolio, but it was certainly a task that Mycroft could undertake with utmost perfection. Furthermore, it was, as Molly had promised, a reprieve from his rather challenging evening. Her request was something he acceded to with great delight.

"How official do you need it to be?" Mycroft had asked her.
"Oh, just a little bit of top brass here and there…" Molly had replied, amused, "Something to keep him sufficiently occupied."
"How long do you need him occupied for?"
"How long do you think is…appropriate?"

Mycroft could not help but smirk at the recollection of her words. Appropriate. Nothing about what she was suggesting was appropriate. It was obvious she knew. Otherwise, why go to such lengths? The moral compass within Mycroft pointed to the fact that despite Molly's genuinely innocent motive, this was still a rather devious little plan they were concocting. He had asked her a few times if she was sure about this, that perhaps she need not be so 'cloak-and-dagger' about the matter. However, she was adamant. This was important, she had told Mycroft, and because no one else would understand how important this was, it needed to be done this way. Mycroft was her only hope to do so.

"I have to do this, Mycroft." she had said.
"I suppose…"
"It may seem an unfair way of doing things, but it's only fair that I do so. You know what I mean?"
"Yes, I do. Like you said, it's only fair. " Mycroft had replied, "I can only hope it…concludes according to plan."
"So do I…"
"You really could just go and see him, you know—"
"No, Mycroft, you know why this has to be done this way."
"I am aware. You can't be distracted. And you can't have interruption."
"Exactly."

There was much to plan and quite a few personal phone calls that Mycroft had to make. He was astounded at the lengths he was going to as well. He laughed quietly to himself as he sent word out to his aides to kick start all the logistics required. Mycroft then began crafting out a separate request to one of his secretaries to draw up the specific list of 'top brass' that Molly's plan required.

"Let's see now…top geneticists, university board members…" Mycroft murmured as he typed, "Heads from the Royal Society of Medicine…"

The Diogenes' Club came into view just as Mycroft sent out this final instruction. Returning his phone to his pocket where he hoped it would stay at least for the next few hours, Mycroft then stepped out of his car and looked forward to a rewarding glass of whisky.

As he slowly made his way through the club's quiet and grand corridors, he could not help but look forward to what Molly had asked of him. Yet, despite his best efforts, Mycroft could not resist the hope that a different outcome would emerge. He tried very hard to respect her intentions, but, really, he knew instinctively it would never go to plan. He shook his head, smiling, when he realised how wrong people were to assume that they knew better. Surely they knew by now, that he was never wrong.

"Still, I'll do what I'm asked of. No more, no less," said Mycroft as he settled into his burgundy armchair.

"Are you excited about tonight?" Molly asked as she adjusted Brian's bow tie.
"Yes, and no…" he answered, "I'm mostly terrified now."
"But it's a good terror, yes?" she said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek.
"Yes, it is," he said with a laugh, "It's a massive opportunity, and I have you to thank."

Brian smiled gratefully at Molly before pulling her towards him. Molly sighed contentedly as she leaned against his crisp shirt. She was happy to do this for him. Despite the theatrics that were about to go on this evening, she was genuinely happy she could present him with this opportunity. Molly kissed him once more. It was fierce, and her hands clung to the lapels of his jacket. There were mixed feelings behind that kiss. There was a hint of anger, a twinge of guilt, a touch of anxiety that all intertwined with the desperation that stemmed from an overwhelming storm of confusion.

There was nothing to be guilty about, nothing to be anxious about, and certainly nothing to be confused about. The fact that these emotions whirled like a snowstorm inside her was what angered her the most. Still, Molly managed to keep it all in. Her smile was in place, perfect and pristine like the jewelled drop-earrings she wore. Brian looked adoringly at Molly who was dressed to perfection in her sculpted, oriental-inspired black number. It was dark, embellished with scattered lace details and suited her marvellously.

"You'll be wonderful tonight," she murmured, planting a gentle kiss on his nose.
"Thank you, love," he replied, his hands not leaving her waist.

Molly smiled up at him, letting her eyes rest on the face of her lover. This was a good thing, Tonight was a good thing. Tonight, she would close a chapter of her life, and in doing so, open a new chapter up for Brian. This was what she wanted. They were going to have great careers, and a great life, together, she and Brian.

"So, Dr Gerling, are you ready to meet with some of the best people in your field?" she asked, moving to stand by his side and looping her arm through his.
"I've never been more ready," he replied, beaming, "A chance of a lifetime."
"A chance of a lifetime," she echoed.

All decked out and ready, the pair stepped out and made their way to where a great benefit was being hosted. It was going to be an evening of fundraising, where the best and brightest minds in genetics would also meet to network and mingle. This was where Brian was hopefully going to meet a few elite names in his field, possibly gleaning some great research opportunities in the process. Naturally, when Molly told him, he was both elated and mortified. Elated at the thought of being amongst some of his personal heroes in science, and mortified by the very same notion.

However, whatever nerves Brian may have had before, now ebbed away. As they stepped into the beautifully decorated venue, the sheer scale of the event seemed to send a sort of adrenalin through him. Contrary to what he had feared, he quite quickly forgot his nerves with every famous face he could spot in the room.

Molly, on the other hand, secretly marvelled at how Mycroft had transformed the place. It certainly bore no resemblance to what it usually was in the daytime. With its large glass windows framed with exquisitely designed decorative lighting, and the scent of the best champagne in the air, he had spared no expense. How did he manage to pull it off in such little time?

Speaking of time, Molly checked her watch surreptitiously whilst she roamed the room with Brian beside. He was still feeling apprehensive but she knew he would warm up in no time. To kick things off, she sent him off to get them some drinks.

Twenty minutes more, Molly. No need to rush, she thought.

Just across from one of the wine bars that had been set up, she spotted a professor that she had specifically told Mycroft to invite.

"Brian," she whispered, nudging him when he returned with two glasses of golden bubbly in hand.
"What's the matter?" he whispered back.
"Look," she said, smiling as she tilted her head in the direction of the professor.
"That's…"
"Yes," she said, beaming up at him.
"No…" he exclaimed, staring back at her.
"Yes!" she chuckled.

It amused Molly to see Brian so dumbstruck and rooted to the spot. He was not often rendered speechless, but it seemed she had succeeded. Molly moved to stand behind him and playfully shoved him forward.

"Have a sip of your bubbly, and go talk to him," she whispered excitedly, "This is your chance!"
"You know what," Brian said, taking a swig of his champagne, "I will. Yes…I will!"
"You can do it, love," Molly said.
"You're a darling, you know that? This would never have happened without you!" he said, turning to kiss her quickly on the forehead before wading confidently though the crowd.

"Seize the moment, Brian!" she remarked with a laugh, raising her glass to him. Brian turned back and raised his glass back to her.
"That's right, Molly," her voice was a whisper now, "Seize…the moment."

Molly checked her watch again. Soon, it would be time. She took a quick swig from her own glass and kept her breathing as measured as possible. Glancing at the time once more, she saw that if she lingered around any further, she would be late. Molly made sure that Brian was safely occupied, and was relieved to see him talking animatedly with the professor. In fact, a few other guests had joined in and it was all looking well.

Exhaling with relief, Molly was just about to turn around when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Mycroft. He hovered only a few paces away from where Brian was. He had long spotted her, of course. He would not be the head of the nation's surveillance, otherwise. With his choice of tipple in hand, he nodded politely to Molly, and she nodded in return. She smiled, tentatively, almost anxiously, and Mycroft noticed it immediately.

The tall and stately brother of Sherlock angled to face her a little more directly, the crowd still separating them. The eyes that rested on her were gentle, calm. Her look in return, however, was tense, the anxiety increasingly evident in her eyes. It was then that Mycroft smiled at her, almost warmly. A moment later, he mouthed something to her and instantly, her smile crept back and the nerves melted away.

All Mycroft had said was one word, and it gave Molly all the assurance she needed.

Go.

"Where are you off to?" Sherlock asked John. It was an odd coincidence that both men stepped out of their rooms at the same time and made straight for the coat rack. John reached for his leather jacket and shrugged it on whilst Sherlock looped a scarf round his neck.

"Isn't it obvious?" John asked, stepping back to let Sherlock survey him.
"N-ope…" Sherlock answered, checking his own appearance in the mirror.
"Some detective you are," muttered John, "I'm off to meet Mary. Dinner."
"Ah. Dinner." Sherlock said with a scoff.
"Oy. It's the same as coffee, all right?"
"Whatever you say," Sherlock muttered, trying to shake off the little bit of heat that crept up his neck. He had never been more grateful for his scarf at that moment.

John laughed as he took his turn in front of the mirror, smoothing the sides of his hair. He cast a quick glance at the clock and was pleased to see he was in time for his dinner date. The thought of dinner suddenly reminded John of something. He turned swiftly to the detective who was busy tucking his pouch of Christmas scalpels into his coat pocket.

"Are you meeting someone then?" John asked as casually as he could.
"Yes," the detective replied plainly.
"Going to see Molly?" John said, raising an eyebrow to Sherlock.

At the sound of her name, Sherlock whipped his head round to face John. He was frowning slightly and it puzzled John.

"No, I'm not going to see Molly." Sherlock answered. His words were measured and slow, as though he were thinking about something else while speaking.
"You haven't heard from her since?" John asked, crossing his arms.
"No, I haven't."
"You sure?"
"I…really haven't." Sherlock answered. His response was genuine, as evidenced by the frown still etched in his face. It no longer puzzled John now.

"Ah, sorry mate…I just thought…"
"She's not contacted me," said Sherlock.
"I'm sure she will…"
"I know she will."

John cleared his throat at the slight awkwardness that had resulted from his assumption. If he was not mistaken, Sherlock looked almost upset. John felt a slight twinge of guilt for having brought it up. A change of topic was probably the best thing.

"So, where are you off to then?" John asked cheerfully, "I'm not you, so don't expect me to deduce it."
"Bart's. I got a call." Sherlock answered, checking his mobile phone.
"New leads?" John asked.
"New problems. Got a call from the team at Scotland Yard. They said a few of the Bart's people on the case discovered an anomaly in the way the lungs were inflated. You see, if they had been suffocated before being thrown into the Severn, then what really should have happened to the lu—"
"Sounds great!" John interrupted, "Anyway, I've got dinner. So, you have a good time cracking the case. Keep me posted."
"You could always come along," Sherlock offered.
"Another time, maybe." John said, making his way out, "Dinner."

Sherlock watched John's retreating figure and fiddled absentmindedly with the mobile phone in his hands.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered under his breath, "Dinner."

En route to Bart's, Sherlock spent all his time in the cab focused on the case. What a strange twist to have occurred. It intrigued him tremendously. Had he not examined the bodies thoroughly before? How could he have missed this twist? This latest development both frustrated and excited him. A good way to pass the time, he thought, as the cab pulled up to the hospital.

Sherlock leapt out from the vehicle and managed to pay the cabby, all in one smooth move. He adjusted his coat and made his way into the building. Straightaway, he noticed something different in the air. Sherlock slowed his walk down to survey his surroundings. Nothing seemed overtly different. There were patients and visitors strolling around the lobby. Hospital staff were scattered about the place, some holding clipboards, some pushing trolleys, some walking and talking in groups. However, there seemed significantly less buzz, as though something else was happening in the hospital. It felt like there were less people around and it just seemed much quieter, with a little less bustle than usual.

Still, Sherlock shrugged it off. What did it matter to his work? He was here and he had a case to attend to. He strode to the lift that would take him downstairs to the morgue where they were expecting him. Had he been the praying sort, he would have prayed for a smooth session, that he would not find himself surrounded by idiots once again. As he was not, he merely readied himself for an evening of selective hearing, ready to tune out the sounds of incompetency he was bound to encounter.

The lift doors slid open and Sherlock made his way straight for the morgue. When he pushed open those familiar double doors, he was perplexed to find the room empty. There were the seven bodies wheeled out and placed side by side but other than those, there really was nobody else. Sherlock looked around and said a tentative hello, only to get no response. Having had his non-prayers answered, Sherlock simply got to work. He spotted a stack of files on a desk in the corner and assumed they were the most recent lab reports that had required his emergency consultation.

"Let's see, what have we here…" he whispered to himself as he began to flip through the files.

If Mycroft had said go, it meant it was okay to go. Brian was in good hands and he would be sufficiently occupied. Molly used to complain to Brian that he would forget her as soon as some exciting work-related thing came up. Tonight, she was almost grateful for this tiny relationship flaw. At this moment, it was the very trait she needed to pull this operation off.

Molly politely made her way through the crowd of glittering guests and smartly dressed servers. She made it to the lift lobby in one piece and paused to catch her breath. Her breathing had quickened and she could no longer tell if this was anxiety, or an anticipation she was not allowed to have. She took one look back at the hall full of people and contemplated what she was about to do.

"Seize the moment, Molly Hooper," she said quietly to herself. There was a little smile on the corner of her lips. Molly tried desperately to stop it, almost trying to conjure back the anxiety to replace the growing excitement she was feeling. She could feel the operation going wrong already. It was starting out on the wrong foot, and that twist in her stomach was the wrong kind. Her jaw was now tight as she willed herself to focus on Brian.

Brian. Brian. Brian…she chanted internally.

Her little chant was interrupted by the ding of lift doors opening. It was time to go. Molly stepped inside and watched the silver doors slide back into position. There was no turning back now.

"This is puzzling…" muttered Sherlock to himself. He had gone through all seven folders and spotted no anomaly. In fact, these reports were just written versions of his previous deductions. He saw no mention of the mystery that he had been informed about. Turning around, he glanced at the bodies that were all draped in cloth. He walked toward them and wove between the rows of bodies.

Sherlock randomly lifted the cloth off of one of the bodies and took a cursory glance. He observed nothing out of the ordinary. There were no new incisions, no new tests he could see having been carried out on these bodies. Had he been misinformed? He tried his best to recall the telephone call. In fact, he did not know whom it was that had called him. All he could remember was that it was not DI Lestrade. Was he supposed to meet at the morgue in the first place? Perhaps he was to go down to the Severn, or to Scotland Yard. Since it had been about the bodies, it made sense to Sherlock to meet at the morgue.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, Sherlock reached for his phone to call Lestrade. Perhaps he could shed some light on this time-wasting little mystery. He scrolled for Lestrade's number and proceeded to dial the number. Sherlock pressed the phone to his ear and waited when just then, he heard the morgue doors open behind him.

"Looking for someone?" said the voice of the one who had opened the doors.

Quickly cancelling the call, Sherlock whipped his head around and was stunned. His mouth was slightly agape as he returned his mobile phone to his pocket in an almost robotic, slow-motion type manner.

There, in that dark dress with its lace details and her ruby drop-earrings, was Molly Hooper. The morgue doors had long shut behind her, but she remained where she was, looking at Sherlock. There was a small smile on her lips as she took in his shocked expression.

"There really was nothing new with the lungs." she said quietly, "They have remained just as you had analysed."
"It was you?"
"Yes, sort of…" Molly said, taking a step forward, "Though if I had called, you would have known it was me and who knows, you might have changed your mind about coffee…"
"It was me who asked this time, remember?" he answered.

In a few strides, Sherlock was standing right in front of Molly. She shuffled slightly, taking a half step back, not wanting to be too close. The echoing clicks of her heels punctured the silence in the morgue.

"Why are you…dressed like that?" he asked, frowning as he scanned her from top to toe.
"Well, the hospital's quite busy this evening—"
"No, it isn't." he interrupted.
"It's quite busy upstairs," said Molly, pointing to the ceiling. "Your brother's hosting a party."
"A party? What for?" Sherlock asked.
"All the top geneticists in town, and possibly the world…" Molly said with a shrug. "Your brother's amazing."
"You've come all this way, dressed to perfection, just to tell me how amazing my brother is? You could have just sent a text…" Sherlock remarked, rolling his eyes.
"Are you saying I look perfect?" Molly asked quietly, biting down on the insides of her mouth from amusement.

Her words caught him off guard, just as his breath had actually caught in his throat when he caught sight of her. It was so strange to see her in such familiar surroundings but in such unfamiliar splendour. Had he ever seen her with her hair down like that before? It was beautiful, and Sherlock made a mental note of it.

"So…" he began, clearing his throat.
"Hmm, yes." she said, with a nod, "So."

They were such an odd sight, both standing so physically near but with such an obvious, forced chasm between them. Their postures were most unnatural, what with their backs ramrod straight, and arms glued to their sides as though they were soldiers on parade. Both their faces were angled just slightly away from each other, but not so much that the other would escape the corners of their eyes.

"I suppose we should cut to the chase?" Molly said quietly.
"Yes…" Sherlock mumbled, not knowing what else to say. Her entire visit had caught him off guard. He was too shocked to enjoy the pleasure of her company yet. Besides, he was not very sure why she had chosen to meet like this in the first place.

"I suppose the party was to keep Brian out of your hair for a little while?" he said, venturing a guess.
"You're very quick," Molly answered with a shy laugh.
"It is my profession to be quick," he answered, smiling.
"And quickness only within your profession, it seems," she said, "You're a little slow when it comes to anything else."
"Well, I…"
"I'm just teasing, Sherlock," she said with a smile.
"Oh, right."
"Though it is true…"
"Well, better late than never."

They both smiled, but their smiles were heavy, despondent. Their positions never changed and their postures remained as they were.

"I'm afraid I have to disagree…" Molly said, finally. Her voice was soft, and laden with regret.
"Would you rather…never?" Sherlock asked, his voice as hushed as hers.
"Yes." she said, looking up sharply. "Yes. Never. No one likes a messy cut."
"Am I a messy cut?"
"The messiest…" Molly replied with a sad laugh.
"It doesn't have to be."
"It already is."

She knew this was contrary to the very words she was saying, but Molly lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him.

"Sherlock?" she uttered softly and fiercely as she tightened her grip around him.
"Yes?" he answered, one arm naturally curving around her waist and the other hand moving to gently cradle the back of her head.
"I just want you to know that I love everything about you," she whispered, "Everything."

The impact from her words was greater than Sherlock had ever imagined. Molly had cut to the chase indeed and it had cut him right to the bone. He immediately drew up any data and experience he had in the context of such expressions. Normally, logically, a confession like so meant the start of journeys, the co-joining of lives, the opening of doors. Why then did this feel like the complete opposite? Somehow, her confession felt like a death sentence, hisdeath sentence.

"Although you've been terrible to me," she continued, "You have also been good."
"You're being too kind, Molly," he whispered, as he held her even closer.
"But I am happy now, Sherlock," she said, "And I need this cut to be clean."
"I am no expert on happiness but are you really sure that you are?" he asked, his fingers almost digging into her waist now.
"I have a job that I love, Brian, whom I love, and who loves me—"
"Where do I stand then?" he asked quietly, almost dreading the answer.
"In the way of my happiness," she answered swiftly.
"Is that true?" he asked, dread flooding his insides.
"Yes."
"Don't make jokes, Molly." he said, with a bitter laugh.
"I don't anymore, remember?" she said, her fingers clutching the fabric of his coat ever so tightly.

Molly shut her eyes and tried to memorise the way this moment felt one last time. After this last indulgence of the crisp scent of his shirt and the warm beats of his heart, Molly pulled herself away. Her reluctance to part was so absurdly obvious, as was Sherlock's, but they peeled themselves away from each other nevertheless.

"I was so angry with you, you know, Sherlock?" Molly confessed.
"That, I was aware of, yes." he said with a gentle laugh.
"It was just so infuriating…you are infuriating," Molly said, laughing too.
"I know," he said with a smirk.
"I hated that I could never trust the fragments of goodness you showed to me, and that I was always just waiting…waiting for you to go back to being…you." Molly said, wringing her hands as she recalled her frustration.
"I didn't know, Molly," he answered quietly. "I didn't know, and I'm sorry."
"Well, now you know," she said, looking up at him and smiling kindly.
"Will you forgive me?" he asked quietly.
"I already have, Sherlock," she said, "This…this meeting, is it."

Her forgiveness should have been a good thing, it should have lightened his heavy spirits, but it did not. He was grateful for it, but the happiness that came with gratitude was absent. Sherlock felt like he was sinking. Slowly but surely, he was sinking. He shook off what he could of the despondence and eked out a smile.

"So," Sherlock said, exhaling sharply as he adjusted his coat, "No coffee then?"
"No, no coffee," Molly replied, with a small smile.
"Friends?" he asked, extending his hand.
"Always," she said, taking his hand in hers.
"Will I see you again?"
"I plan to come home every Christmas…" Molly answered. Her face brightened a little more now.
"Well, that's one reason now to look forward to December," Sherlock said, smiling furtively.

Molly laughed softly and looked up at Sherlock. She ignored the fact that his smile did not reach his eyes. She refused to believe that this was sad. She refused to believe that he was sad. Molly took a deep breath, smiled once more at Sherlock, and turned to walk out of the morgue.

When her hands pressed against the morgue doors, Molly paused and could not help the smile that was creeping across her face again. Sherlock had not moved from where he was and was surprised to see her stop, with her hand resting on the closed doors. Trying to still the drumming in her heart, Molly turned around to face Sherlock again. Mycroft's words rang in her head, questioning her ability to achieve what she really wanted to achieve out of this. She had succeeded, but not entirely.

"How'd you like your gift?" she asked, walking towards the detective who was watching her warily.
"I…like it very much…" Sherlock answered, unsure of what she was doing.
"Did you bring it with you?" Molly asked, tapping at his coat.
"Y-es." he said, reaching for it slowly and bringing it out. "Here."
"Good…good," she said, smiling and nodding as she took it from him.

Molly held it in her hands and toyed with it for a bit. She smiled to herself, biting on her lower lip as she looked down at the pouch of scalpels.

"Since you like your gift…"
"I do indeed," he interjected.
"Be quiet, Sherlock!" Molly remarked, chuckling.
"Sorry." he said, unable to stop a smile.

Molly stepped right up to him and held one side of his coat open to reach for its inside pocket. When she had found it, she slid the pouch back in and patted it, folding the coat back over his chest again.

"Could I ask for something in return?" she whispered, looking up at him with bright eyes. Sherlock noticed that her hand was still gripping the edge of his coat and he blinked nervously.
"Anything…" Sherlock murmured in reply.
"Anything?" she teased, her eyes dancing.
"Anything." he repeated.

Anything that starts off on the wrong foot is not likely to conclude entirely the way it should. Molly could not begin to describe how wrong this was, but nothing could stop her from how much she needed this. This had been brewing far too long in her gut, and she was not going to stop it anymore. If this was going to be goodbye, she was going to be make it a good one. If anything, she deserved it.

The high heels she had on meant Molly hardly needed to tiptoe. She merely reached for his face, gently drawing him towards her and let their lips finally meet. She shut her eyes and sighed with quiet content as she kissed him, memorising as much as she could of how it felt. Molly knew this would shock Sherlock, and was expecting a shove, or a shout, or some kind of dramatic exit.

To her surprise, he resumed his first embrace, this time using both hands to pull her towards him. Molly could feel the crushing intensity of his arms as they anchored themselves around her, his palms pressed against her as he kissed her in return. Where she was expecting his lips to pull away, she never expected to find herself having to keep steady from the force with which he was kissing her.

The one who ended up being in shock was Molly. She could not help but smile against his mouth as he continued to kiss her, sending wave after wave of electricity through her. His hands moved to cup her face, as though refusing to let her go. Molly was supposed to let go, but did not. Her lips parted when his did as they both gasped for a moment of air but only so they could continue. For the very first time, there was nothing between them. No awkward space between, no painful silence, no unspoken hurt.

In an act of synchronised reluctance as their heads cleared, they parted, but only by an inch. Their noses were almost touching as they fought to catch their breaths. Molly laughed quietly and Sherlock could not help but grin back at her. He leaned forward and stole one more soft kiss for himself. He knew he was allowed none of this, but he stole one anyway. She looked up at him, a cheeky glint flitting momentarily in her eyes before they faded back to the heaviness of reality.

The grin on Sherlock's face faded away too. His eyes widened as he quietly fought the simmering emotion beneath his skin. This was it. Their exchange was complete. He had his Christmas gift and she now had hers. Now, the death sentence was to begin. Still, one hand could not leave her face. He felt the delicate skin of her cheekbone beneath his palm and did not want to touch anything else.

"I have to go," she whispered, taking a step back from him.
"You really don't…" he said.
"Yes, I do. Don't tempt me otherwise." she answered with a little smirk.

Sherlock sighed and stepped fully away from her. Even the hand that held on to the side of her face was now back in his coat pocket. He looked down briefly at his shoes and he could feel Molly's eyes on him. For a brief moment, he seemed to smile to himself, and then quickly erased it from his face.

"What?" Molly asked, frowning. She saw that grin, and was curious.
"Nothing," he said, looking back up. "Nothing."
"You were smiling…"
"It was a good kiss, of course, I'm smiling," he answered.
"Like you would know a good kiss…" Molly teased.
"You'd be surprised," he said with a smirk.
"I was." she said, returning his smirk.

They had returned to their soldier's positions again. The invisible wall that kept them on their own sides had been rebuilt.

"Goodbye, Molly," Sherlock said, as Molly turned to walk away from him.
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
"Next Christmas then?" he asked, eyeing her intently.
"It's a promise." she said, with one final smile, before pushing past the double doors and exiting the morgue.

When the lift doors opened Molly dashed out. She had not realised how long she had been away and could only hope Mycroft had covered for her. To her relief, the evening was still going well and the atmosphere in the room was simply buzzing. As she snuck her way back into the crowd, she found her boyfriend, talking intently with a few members from the board at Bart's. Before going up to him, Molly scanned the room for Mycroft. She had to stand up on tiptoe just so she could get a better view above the crowd. Eventually, she spotted him but only because he had been staring at her first.

When their eyes met, she smiled at him and nodded, to signal that it was all finished. Mycroft nodded in return and raised his glass to her. He took a final sip of his drink and placed the glass back on a passing server's tray. With one more nod to bid Molly goodbye, he turned and walked away. His job this evening was done.

Molly now focused her attention to Brian. She walked up to him and quietly looped her arm through his and leaned against him. He turned to her in surprise and beamed at her. Excitedly, he began introducing her to the people he was talking to and soon, Molly slipped naturally in to their conversation as though she had been there right from the start.

There was much to think about on his way home from Bart's. Sherlock sat in his cab and replayed their meeting and their entire conversation. What Molly had intended to be a parting of ways had only served to put them back on a different set of crossroads. He was sure their paths were not fully divergent, that they would meet again at some point. She had wanted to sever their ties. It was more than obvious. However, she had failed. Whether she knew it or not, Sherlock knew she had failed, just as he had failed so long ago to cut her out from his mind.

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a tiny object. He placed it on his gloved palm and brought it up to his eyes. It was dark outside but it still sparkled from time to time as the cab whizzed past the street lights. When he examined it, he smiled to himself and his eyes sparkled together with it.

"We're down from five years to next Christmas…" he murmured as he fiddled with the tiny object between his fingers. "I can definitely wait," he said with a quiet laugh as he returned the object into his pocket.

"What a night, Molly!" Brian exclaimed as he swept her up into his arms and planted kisses all over her face. Molly laughed in delight as she held his face in her hands and kissed him back on his lips.
"How did you even score us an invite to a gala like this?" he asked, looking at her with bright, ecstatic eyes. "I owe you one, Molly."
"You most certainly do," she teased.

Brian laughed and gave her a peck on each cheek before kissing her once more on her lips. He then affectionately tucked a few locks of her hair at the back of her ear.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in surprise.
"What?" Molly asked.
"You've lost an earring!" Brian said, reaching to touch her bare lobe.

Molly's hand snapped up to where Brian had touched her ear and he was right. The drop-earring on her left ear was missing. She sighed angrily at herself. Perhaps it had dropped off in her rush to get back to the party.

"Don't be upset," Brian said, giving her a kiss. "We'll get you a new pair, a lovely new pair."
"Thanks darling," she said, feigning a smile and quickly removing the other earring.
"I'm going to have a shower," he said, walking off, "It's been a crazy night!"
"You go right ahead, love," Molly said, moving to sit on the bed as she kicked her heels off.

When he was gone, Molly flopped back down on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. Her heart and mind were now in a muddy mess.

"What happened to a clean cut, aye?" she whispered angrily to herself.

She sighed, frustrated and brought her arm up to cover her eyes. Perhaps it would all be better in the morning. As she lay there, almost drifting off to sleep, she heard her mobile phone buzz within the little clutch bag beside her. Without opening her eyes, she grasped clumsily for her bag and retrieved her phone to read the message.

Molly sat up and rubbed her eyes to clear her vision a little as her other hand swiped open her inbox. She flinched slightly from the brightness of her screen but as her eyes adjusted and its contents were clear, Molly gasped.

Within the tiny rectangle of light in front of her, was a picture of the very earring she had lost. In fact, it had not been lost. Rather, it had been stolen from her.

A little reminder in case you forget. I'll keep it well, don't worry. - SH

See you next Christmas. I'll be waiting. - SH